Cages – chapter two




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As a gift for you, the first chapters of Stars of dust


Baresi calls me on the phone of the corridor to inform me that the next day the delegation of an important Canadian company will come and that they requested the first conference room of the ground floor. I ask him, because I’ve almost completed my turn, if I can finish an hour earlier and recover tomorrow, replacing Marta in her middle turn.


– Marta said that she will replace you in the morning, because you have a commitment.

– No, Baresi, it’s not like that.

– Okay, that’s the same, a change is no problem. And if you have to get out now, go.

– Thank you.

– Listen, Mumba: you know who’s the one who pinched my tires?

– I really don’t know, Baresi. I’m sorry.

– Where are you now, Mumba?

– Why?

– Are you done hiding in the empty rooms or I have to take action?

– Sorry Baresi, it won’t happen again.

– Mumba, you know I always come to know everything, right?

– Yes, Baresi, I know.

– Good.

Marta the interpreter had struck again. I’m going to take of my suit. I come out from the locker room, pass the concierge and I’m out. It’s almost dark, and rain stopped. I check the car, throw the parking cards and start the engine. The gasoline pump repeats its growl. U2 discography is waiting for me, provided that the weather has not damaged my PC.

I can say I discovered the secret of life. It’s the xylophone. After a day of work, I light up a cigarette and put an old CD of Milt Jackson and Wes Montgomery, entitled Bags Meets Wes. I’m not keen on jazz, but I like it, and I love this cd because there’s a xylophone. No one will make me nervous now, in the middle of the evening traffic. A scooter out of nowhere, I avoid it by a whisker, a bike ride in the middle of the road, no sign of stepping aside; I take its rhythm and enjoy the trumpeting of the row that imposed on my back. After all, I offered a service: what would have people done at home? Work finished, everyone watching television with quizzes and games, or a match. It’s not my fault if they don’t have a CD with xylophones and listen to shitty music, if they buy darting machines that can not whiz, if there are perpetrators, if any imbecility exists… engagez-vous, contemporary music got me down, that’s why I play Bags meets Wes! where there is a xylophone, because it’s really nice to feel relaxed in front of all these poisoned people. It’s like that, they won’t take you.

He turns, so I keep on the right and the row of car passes me, cursing: yes, go ahead, back in your beautiful homes, on your nice cars, in front of your dishes, take your newspaper, remember to keep ending festivities holy, to buy, and to spread, sell and spend yourselves, to pay your boobs to your wives and rods of trannies you hold in your palmares, park your big car in front of the access for disabled, as roads are too small. You are the masters of the world, you.

Home, at last. I prepare the sauce for the arrabbiata and put water on fire. I hope to eat soon. I sit and wait. I rummage in my pockets and pull out the flyer of the guy in front of the fast food: forest depleted in favor of pastures for cattle to be slaughtered, the devastating consequences for climate and oxygen, staff underpaid and exploited, feature well-known of global brands and advertising spells on children.

Water is boiling. My head boils, the earth, everything. I throw in pasta and light up a cigarette. Who smokes has made a covenant with death. I recently bought an ashtray like the ones in medical studies (or at least in that of my physician) with the metal nozzle which opens so that the cigarette falls down in the container. I empty it every week, and so I check how much tar is over my lungs. It seems that the multinationals of tobacco also put some ammonia in, to feed even more dependence. Everyone does it, even for mortgages: what’s not addictive?

I try to relax and, on the phone, I get a message from Marta.


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